Like many aging men who’ve never really picked up “this internet thing” but yearn to see a naked women straddle a pole right in front of them, Rob Duncan found himself going to a strip club a few times a year. A responsible divorced father of five, he always waited until payday for his little outings so he could first pay rent and send child support money to his ex-wives.

But one day in February, the Cheyenne, Wyoming electrician was less than careful. He was still reeling from having lost $600 betting on the Panthers to beat the Broncos in the Super Bowl, and getting a tooth pulled that week set him back a further $350. When he strolled into Angels ‘n’ Cream, a lonely man in need of a little visual titillation, he didn’t even have a single dollar bill to put in the dancers’ panties.

Because Duncan, 46, was known and liked by the staff, he was given a tab with the understanding that he would pay before leaving. Uh-oh. He spent four hours at the club in a haze of booze, crappy music, and exposed flesh, and it was only when the DJ announced closing time that Duncan came to his senses.

“I have an underlying mental condition that causes me to make really shitty decisions,” Rob explained to the doorman when he was caught trying to sneak out without paying. “It’s called fuckbrainitis, and doctors say there’s no cure.”

When manager Rick Pleet showed up with three members of the club’s security staff at his side, Duncan feared for his life.

“It’s true, we were going to crack his skull, and probably break a few limbs for good measure,” Pleet confirmed. “Our tentative plan was to use him as a battering ram against the brick wall by the dumpster out back.”

Yet what happened next was right out of “Pay It Forward” or “Touched by an Angel.” An anonymous patron of Angels ‘n’ Cream picked up Duncan’s entire $2,500 tab, even leaving an extra 200 bucks for tips.

Jessica Popskin, one of the four performers who gave Duncan lap dances and manual stimulation in the club’s VIP room, says that she and the other girls were delighted when a hero came out of nowhere to save the day.

“Kind of ironic that we’re called ‘angels’ by the owner, yet there’s little in the way of miracles that we can perform,” she said.

Duncan never found out the identity of his savior, but he says that he’s seen the light. He now understands that if he wants a woman on a stage to jiggle her butt inches from his face, he’d better be able to cough up the cash. He never gets more than a single lap dance during a visit, and he always pays for services in advance, just to be on the safe side. In his free time, he mentors young men about how to responsibly enjoy gentlemen’s clubs.

“Growing up, I never had anyone to teach me how to make a wad of 40 singles last all night,” he said. “And all around the country, millions of normal, everyday men still can’t tell the difference between a stripper’s simulated eye-fuck and genuine, heartfelt interest. As a society, we’ve failed these men. But I still have hope for the future.”